The envelope had been shoved beneath the door—no owl, no courtesy, just the cold press of Ministry parchment against worn floorboards. Y/n's name was written in sharp, official script. The seal had already been broken when it arrived.

Years in the Ministry taught Y/n to recognize the weight of certain documents before reading them. This one was heavy. The kind of heavy that rearranged lives.

The parchment was crisp when unfolded, the kind of paper that felt more like a verdict than a formality. Black ink, clinical and precise, each letter a small, sharp blade.

RE: MATTHEO RIDDLE—FILE STATUS UPDATE

The words that followed blurred and sharpened in turns, some searing into memory while others slid away like water off glass. Last seen: final days of the war. Current status: missing. Presumed dead.

A pause. A breath. The paper shook slightly in Y/n's hands.

Presumed dead. Not confirmed. Not verified. Just a guess dressed in legal language, a bet the Ministry had made with itself and chosen to win.

The flat was too quiet. The dust motes continued their slow, indifferent dance. Somewhere in the distance, a kettle whistled in a neighbor's kitchen, and life went on in all its ordinary, unbearable ways.

But there—folded into the corner of the envelope, almost missed—a smaller slip of parchment. Handwritten. The hand was shaky, hurried, as if whoever wrote it had only moments to spare.

They're wrong. He's not dead. Check the diary.

No signature. No Ministry seal. Just a warning, or a plea, or a trap—Y/n couldn't tell which yet. Or maybe all three.